


A Spark Neglected

by Sapph



Series: Pyrokinetic AU [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Hydra, Team as Family, mentions of medical experimentation, pyrokinetic!Ward
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-02 20:53:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2825780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sapph/pseuds/Sapph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pyrokinetic!Ward & team AU</p><p>He knows who they are when they come for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Spark Neglected

Memories pulse in his skull as the world drowns in absent sounds. To think there was laughter once, infant grins and baby teeth—between these blackened walls, only the dead smile.

 

 _S_ omeone once whispered his name, grinding his sorrow between their crumbling teeth; someone once anchored him in their embrace like he was weightless. The day fire sparked, he recognized her ashes. They were the ones who held no bones, only traces of feathers and swallowed sadness—they were the ones that clung to his soul.

 

 _This is us_ , his sister once said, _this is all we'll ever be_.

 

Her decaying eyes were the only darkness he never feared, more beautiful than the light of distant stars. The day the fire raged, she cried _calamity_ as if meant salvation _._

 

All returned to dust.

 

_But not you_

 

–

 

When death was born from the womb of his mother, a young girl cradled a fragile body to her chest, raising a shield of innocent skin against a widower's grief. For years, she succeeded, growing tall and scarred like a heroine; but her bones began to crack beneath the pressure, a guardian's wings sagging to the earth—for angels, as it turned out, only exist in heaven.

 

The day the fire was born, he wondered what their mother would have done had she known the fate that awaited her family. His father's looming figure is the last thing he remembers before the blaze consumed them all.

 

All but him.

 

–

 

 _Murderer_ , his sister's fingers are wrapped around his neck and his lungs are burning; eyes open to the sting of smoke and fire dancing across the ceiling as if the sky has exploded— _these stars are lights we'll never reach,_ she once said, _we are the darkness in between._

 

The hands around his throat multiply, phantoms stirring in his bones until his skeleton snaps into place. He is nevermore the same. As he make his way outside he meets no charred corpses, but death is stuck to crumbling wood and he knows; he knows where they became dust, he can taste it in the air and feel it cling to his skin.

 

“I'm sorry,” he cries, scraping his hands bloody on splintering wood; he can feel her sadness as if it is his own.

 

Walking away is easy; there is nothing left to leave behind.

 

–

 

He meets a man with steel in his eyes and thinks that if he cannot be taught the same, at least the sharp edges might kill him.

 

Garrett tells him he has a gift, all he needs is control; he never mentioned it would be someone else's.

 

Jagged metal becomes the curve of his spine, and his tongue grows heavier with every lie he learns. Pressure threatens to spark the fire inside him, the press of fingers opening fissures on the surface of his skin. When the flames finally escape his body, they illuminated the night sky, turning hushed green canopies into void, and metallic glints into the crumbling contours of life.

 

Two years of promises and all he leaves behind are chains.

 

–

 

 _It's okay,_ they say as laughter clouds their voices, _this is who you are._

 

 _Not you,_ his sister pleads, _not you._

 

He wakes with tears in his eyes and the remains of the dead stuck to the membrane of his lungs.

 

He bleeds and bleeds but never purges the wrongness from his veins—wounds heal, but the chasms that litter his existence never close.

 

 _You lied_ , he thinks as he looks up to the midnight sky, _the stars are just as dead as us._

 

Hope is not for monsters.

 

–

 

He knows who they are when they come for him. Fire snaps beneath his skin, but the needle that pierces his neck traps it inside, boiling his organs into liquid rage and crowding heat in the flicker of his eyes.

 

He wakes to scalpel gazes and electric currents; to sick awe and the overwhelming smell of disinfectants.

 

He begs for mercy only thrice, because his pleas go unacknowledged, as if the sounds that pass his lips are as incomprehensible as the shrieks of a caged animal.

 

While the days blend together, he counts the marks on his body and chokes on the smoke in his ribcage. He stops fighting when they come for him, it never mattered anyway.

 

–

 

_Dangerous,_ their eyes say. “ You're safe _,”_ their lips lie. Gunshots echo through pristine white corridors that reek of death and with every burst of sounds he feels the fire rear. He allows the strangers to drag him along, out of a building he never realized was this big and into a world that's even bigger.

 

He'd almost forgotten. The sky is wider than he imagined looking up at the ceiling of his cell ; he throws his head back and stares. Hands jostle his body, cracking soldered joints, and suddenly the sky is gone.

 

It's only when they take off that he realizes he's on a plane.

 

–

 

“How are you?” the man in the suit asks, but it's not a questions, not really. It's a test, a ploy. The fire simmers dully. He wants nothing more than to set himself alight, but the pain that's sure to follow will smother him.

 

They must know of the conflagration sparking in his frail body, because they have not removed the device from his neck.

 

He laughs in low bursts of sounds colliding with his clenched teeth until electricity sizzles through his veins, driving out the flames that define his being.

 

“I'm sorry,” the man says as his body seizes, and it almost sounds like he means it.

 

–

 

Another needle slides beneath his skin, stealing little bits of his being for the sake of science.

 

“You're severely malnourished,” the scientist huffs as if it is his fault, yet she swiped his arm almost gently. He can tell by the way her eyes shift away that's she's not comfortable with him here. He almost feels like reassuring her. Almost.

 

“This is so wrong,” her companion says suddenly. He'd begun to zone out as usual, but the voice snaps the world back into focus so quickly the whiplash makes his head ache. Glass shatters and someone yells, his muscles contract in protest.

 

_Shit._

 

“Did you do that?” the curly-haired man asks as he stomps on the smouldering cloth. Grant recognizes the awe in his voice. It makes his stomach churn.

 

“He could make something explode, Fitz!” the woman cries, her eyes wide with apprehension.

 

He almost laughs, but there is no breath inside his lungs to escape, so he remains where he is, slumped to the side and static—like he isn't even there. When someone touches his shoulder, he flinches, even though he knows better.

 

“Can I go now?” he croaks, not really expecting an answer. “Can I go back to my cell?” He hates the words the moment they leave his lips. _Weak_ , he thinks. _Stupid_. _What makes you think they're any different?_

 

The man's eyes widen as he removes his hand, and the woman lets out a choked noise. Anger swells in her gaze, and he regrets speaking; but she only spins around, her lab coat swinging around her thighs, and strides through the sliding doors.

 

“Don't worry,” the man mutters, awkwardly clearing his throat. His lips part as if he wishes to say more, but he doesn't. Instead, he leans forward and examines the device.

 

Grant doesn't know what to do, so he does nothing.

 

–

 

“I need you to answer some questions,” the dark-haired woman says; her eyes are cool and firm, but they don't feel threatening. They don't _cut_.

 

 _May_ , she'd introduced herself. _Agent May_. A last name. There was a May at the Hydra base, one of the scientist who used to fasten the straps around his limbs . Her last name escapes him.

 

“Can you do that?”

 

Silence drags before he realizes that was a question. He panics, his throat closing, but before the fire attempts to lash out and the device activates, Agent May reaches forward to grab his hands. He tries to tug them free, but she tightens her grip and pulls his forward, elbows banging against the metal table.

 

“Breathe,” she implores, a sympathetic note to her voice. He looks up in surprise, his confusion only growing when she releases his hands. Their gazes remain locked until the rise and fall of his chest matches hers.

 

“Okay?”

 

He inclines his head with a short jerk, and for a brief moment her stony expression shifts into something softer.

 

“What's your name?”

 

He's ashamed to admit it takes him a couple of seconds to answer.

 

\--

 

The Playground rather reminds him of the Hydra base, especially the science lab. If they notice his unease when he is there, they don't mention it. But as the weeks drag, Agent Simmons moves his daily check-ups out of the big laboratory and into a smaller med bay. The warm sensation of gratitude feels almost foreign.

 

The fire in his veins has settled, only stirring at unexpected motions, but the device remains.

 

“We need to know the consequences of removing it,” Agent Fitz explains, his eyes guilty and his words scrambling from his tongue. _We need to know if you'll end up killing us all_ , is what they don't say.

 

“I understand,” he says, and it's the truth. He understands it all too well.

 

You can't unmuzzle a dog until you're sure it won't tear out your throat.

 

–

 

“Here,” Agent Skye says, her smile a little too forced but kind nonetheless. He takes the proffered mug and sips the hot beverage, wincing at the bitter taste.

 

“What is it?” he asks, peering down into the dark liquid.

 

She looks stunned and he wonders if he's done something wrong. “Coffee,” she manages to force out eventually. “It's coffee.”

 

_Oh,_ he thinks as he takes another sip. It doesn't taste like he remembers, but perhaps he has simply forgotten.

 

“Thank you,” he says, because he hadn't before, and that what you should do when someone's nice. At least, that's what his sister used to say—he almost drops the mug onto the table.

 

He hasn't thought about her in a long time; she's a part of the human life he left behind.

 

 _What was that like,_ he wonders, _being whole?_

 

Time erases memories; time will install them anew.

 

The next day, Agent Triplett offers him a bar of chocolate. He recognizes it because it used to be Kat's favourite.

 

 _Kat_ , he almost laughs, his sister used to hate that nickname. She used to- she used to say...

 

_I'm not an animal._

 

–

 

“Does it bother you?” Agent Mackenzie asks, a frown marring his forehead. He cocks his head in confusion. For some reason Agent Hunter begins laugh. He tries not to wince at the sound.

 

“Does what bother me?” he enquires quietly, flicking his gaze to the other agent who just shrugs.

 

“That thing on your neck,” the man clarifies, rolling his broad shoulders as he leans against his work table.

 

He thinks about the question, perhaps longer than necessary, but the answer isn't simple.

 

“It doesn't hurt when it's inactive,” he finally says, because he cannot explain how trapped he feels sometimes, as if one limb is caught in a snare and the more he struggles to escape, the more it hurts.

 

–

 

He stays at the base, even when they're not there. He's called to Director Coulson office on occasion, the man's so swamped Grant is surprised he makes the time—then again, if you decide to keep monsters, better check up on them regularly. Agent Koenig tends to watch him pensively as well. It creeps him out. Well, one of them does, the other keeps cracking jokes he doesn't get.

 

He stays in the room they've assigned him, one that locks from the inside, and huddles on the floor beneath a mountain of soft blankets. Some mornings the weight of his memories pins him to his mattress.

 

He stays at the base.

 

Where else is he supposed to go?

 

–

 

“Grant?”

 

His head shoots up at the sound of his name, the back of his skull colliding with the wall. He groans in pain and blinks up at the intruder. He hadn't expected anyone to find him here.

 

Perhaps Director Coulson has finally noticed one of his vault keys is missing.

 

“Agent Morse.”

 

“Bobbi,” she corrects as usual, grinning down at him. For a moment, they both remain silent.

 

“What are you doing?” Agent Morse finally says, her eyes glinting in the dim light of the overhead fixture. He thinks there is steel in her too, but her gaze doesn't scrape his skin the way Garrett's used to, and her hands have never tried to dissect him.

 

He's beginning to take that for granted.

 

“Hiding,” he admits in a whisper, like his sister used to do when she shared stories about their mother, afraid their father would overhear.

 

She makes an unintelligible sound and lowers herself down next to him. They're facing the entrance, he knows she notices because her eyes flicker to the doorway at the top of the stairs.

 

“Why here?”

 

He doesn't have an answer and it troubles him. He hates it, the fear that rises with his uncertainty, as if she would strike out for not providing what she wants to hear.

 

“Okay,” she says, when he doesn't respond, turning her head to look at him. “Why now?”

 

He presses the heels of his hands against the top of his eye sockets. “I don't know,” he bites out, too harshly, but she hardly reacts.

 

“Do you feel smothered?” she offers instead.

 

Fire lurches in his chest like a flame trying to escape its wick. He almost says _yes_ , before he realizes that's not what she meant. His right hand drifts to the circular device attached to his neck.

 

The heavy sigh that escapes her takes him by surprise. When he looks her way, her eyes are sad. She lifts her arm slowly, giving him time to react. He waits tensely as she brushes the tips of her fingers against his temple, before running her hand through his hair. He doesn't lean into her touch, but neither does he pull away.

 

“We'll figure it out,” she says vehemently, the look in her eyes so determined, he believes her. “I promise.”

 

–

 

“What are you doing?” Agent Mackenzie asks, a grimace on his lips, as he places some odd metal thing with tubes down on one of the tables.

 

He wonders what it does. Perhaps he'll ask Fitz later.

 

“We need to run another blood test,” Agent Simmons informs the other man, giving Grant an apologetic smile. He just nods and tries not to focus on the needle.

 

“Don't you think he's had enough of that?”

 

He sees her eyes widen fractionally and knows she's offended. “I'm doing this for him,” she says curtly, though he can hear the tremor in her voice.

 

The other agent watches them sceptically but doesn't say another word.

 

He thinks there's a story there.

 

–

 

He watches them spar from the doorway and fights the urge to point out the blatant weakness in the move Agent Hunter has just performed, even if it was successful. A more experienced combatant than Skye would have taken advantage of it.

 

“You wanna have a go?” Agent Triplett asks. Grant freezes in surprise, caught, and his mouth won't move.

 

“Leave the kid alone,” Agent Hunter says, his breathing unsteady from the exertion.

 

He frowns at the name, his skin prickling, because he's not a kid, he never was. He's also almost nineteen. He knows because he calculated his age when Skye looked up his date of birth for him. She'd been very patient with any questions he's had about the last few years, about SHIELD, about himself, about all the things he'd forgotten, even if she didn't have all the answers herself.

 

“I'll fight _him_ ,” he says and the brash words startle him even more than the others. His body might not have fully recovered yet, but he's sparred with an empty stomach and bruised ribs. He has a chance.

 

Agent Triplett is frowning but doesn't voice his disapproval.

 

“Is that safe?” Skye asks him, concern evident in her voice. He doesn't quite understand.

 

“I won't lose control,” he assures her anyway, before taping the device on his neck “either way it won't harm you.”

 

“That's not-”

 

“Oh well,” Agent Hunter cuts in, “why not?” He stretches and grins. “Come one then, young padawan, let the master teach you some tricks.” Grant frowns because Bobbi made the same reference once.

 

Agent Triplett huffs a laugh at the exclamation; it earns him a glare.

 

Grant almost misses the first blow, only ducking on instinct, but when the next one comes, he's prepared.

 

The movements come more fluently than he'd thought, as if his muscles remember the exact sequence to carry out. A body hits the ground with a loud thud, followed by a long silence. For a moment, he panics-

 

Skye bursts out laughing.

 

“What the hell was that?” Agent Hunter cries out indignantly from the mat.

 

“Guess the _kid_ 's got moves,” Agent Triplett grins, but Grant can tell that there is worry crusted in the corners of his eyes.

 

 _For what?_ he wonders. _You_ , his mind supplies.

 

He doesn't know if Director Coulson has told them about his life before the Hydra facility. He doesn't know if they're aware they're spending their time with a murderer.

 

If they knew all that he'd done, how dangerous he really is, surely they wouldn't want him here.

 

May tells him it's not his fault, that he didn't deserve what happened to him. He wants to believe her.

 

But he doesn't.

 

–

 

He meditates with Agent May some days. “You'll need to be in control when the device is removed,” she reminds him.

 

“Will it ever?” he counters. There are few people he dares to be this blunt with. But May knows the terrible things he's done. He figures if she was going to get angry, she would have done so long ago.

 

“Tell me something you're afraid of.”

 

He hesitates, because they both know there are things he hasn't told her, that he doesn't want anyone to know.

 

“There is no wrong or right answer,” she says gently, her words and echo of past conversations.

 

He shakes his head, and her lips curve sadly but she doesn't press.

 

–

 

“G4” Skye says, but he's too distracted by the argument transpiring on the other side of the glass. “I know I sank it.”

 

He looks back over at her and mutters, “you did.”

 

She sighs. “Don't worry about FitzSimmons, they'll work things out eventually.”

 

“What happened?”

 

She shrugs, though her eyes darken. “When Hydra revealed itself, everything was chaos,” she tells him. “For a while, we thought she abandoned us.”

 

“Did she?”

 

“No,” she smiles softly, gazing his way as if measuring her words. “That's not what we do.”

 

–

 

“Where did you learn that move?” Agent Triplett asks him a couple of days later. Grant can tell he's been thinking about it. He suddenly remembers what Director Coulson had mentioned.

 

Garrett had been his SO.

 

“I don't-” he swallows, clenching his hands into fists to stop them from shaking.

 

“Hey,” Agent Triplett says, startled by his response. “It's okay. You don't need to tell me.”

 

He wishes he could set his skin on fire and burn off all the memories.

 

“You hungry?” the other man asks, looking guilty. Grant doesn't get it; he doesn't understand why they're so patient, so generous, so _kind_.

 

He doesn't understand why they'd help him if they won't demand anything in return.

 

–

 

“You see, the technology is fairly advanced. Not that it's too difficult for us.”

 

“ _Fitz_.”

 

“Oh well, I mean, we don't really understand your ability and removing it might-”

 

He zones out because he's heard it all a thousand time before. They can't remove it, because he might lose control the moment they take it off, because it might have alternate functions, because he's a danger to them all.

 

“It's fine,” he says eventually, stopping the engineer's ramblings. “I get it, I'm a fire hazard.”

 

“I'm sorry,” Simmons says quietly, and he thinks her eyes might be tearing. He swallows the lump in his throat and nods because they have done more for him than he deserves.

 

He can live like this, with them, even if sometimes he feels like he's about to explode. It's a better existence than the one he had before.

 

–

 

“I heard you kicked Hunter's ass,” Bobbi tells him, laughter weaving through her voice. She bumps her shoulder against his and he can't help but smile.

 

“It was hardly like that,” he confesses, because honestly, it had been quite unimpressive.

 

She just shrugs. “Well, if you ever want to spar with a real master...” she trails off, raising her eyebrows in question.

 

He nods his head almost shyly and she grins in response. He never thought metal could be so warm.

 

She does teach him, whenever she has the time, and she's as brilliant as he imagined. Their training schedule also includes Star Wars films, but she makes him promise not to tell Hunter.

 

–

 

“Okay, that was the most impossible mission we've ever had,” Skye says, groaning as she moves her bruised shoulder. They've all gathered in the rec room, sipping beer because Agent Hunter insists it's a celebration.

 

 _Even you kid,_ he'd said, and for once Grant hadn't minded. He's just glad they're back in one piece.

 

“Well, if the job was easy,” Trip remarks, before a dark look crosses his face.

 

Grant doesn't even think about it; the response is automatic. “It wouldn't be any fun.”

 

The silence settles in his bones as realization sinks in. The expression on Agent Triplett’s face is one of utter shock.

 

He isn't prepared for the pain that shoots through his body as the table beneath him catches flame.

 

Somebody's shouting but he can't make out the words, it's like he's been pushed underwater. When the electricity finally ceases to course, he finds himself heaving on the floor. A cool hand comes to rest on the nape of his neck and he shudders.

 

“Listen to me,” May urges. “You're alright. Just breathe with me.”

 

He hears curses and the sounds of what he guesses is a fire extinguisher. He closes his eyes in shame. May sighs and helps him up.

 

“This is not the end,” she says and then more quietly. “He won't judge you.”

 

“I killed him,” he chokes and it's only then that he notices he's crying.

 

“Yes,” she states, grabbing his chin and forcing his head up. The look in her eyes is so fierce, it takes him aback. “And he deserved it.”

 

–

 

Some nights he wakes, the sheets too heavy on top of him, and struggles with an assailant that is long gone.

 

Dead.

 

The fissures in his skin are still spreading and he doesn't know how to stop them. Some nights he thinks about helping them along.

 

–

 

“So...you knew Garrett?” Fitz asks, his tone forcefully casual. Jemma scowls at him before checking the readings on her tablet.

 

“It doesn't seem like it's done any permanent damage.”

 

“Except to the table,” Skye quips. Any other time, he might have laughed.

 

Jemma comes to stand in front of him and after a moment of hesitation places her hands on his shoulders. “Does Coulson know,” she enquires gently. He nods. The smile she gives him in return is strained.

 

“Was he there,” Skye asks, “at the Hydra base?”

 

He shakes his head and her expression falls as if she'd expected that answer.

 

“Before,” she declares darkly and it's not a question.

 

“What happened?” Fitz wonders, but Grant can't answer him. He doesn't want to think about it. He doesn't want them to know.

 

He can't breath.

 

“Whoa,” Skye calls out. “Calm down.”

 

“You don't have to tell us,” Fitz hurries. The air is tense suddenly.

 

They're afraid of him.

 

He scrunches his eyes shut and calms his breathing the way May taught him. He wasn't going to-

 

“Can I go now?” he all but pleads and he _hates_ how weak he sounds.

 

“Of course,” Jemma says before any of the others can react. He tries to keep his gait even.

 

The concrete floor of the vault is cold, but he curls up there anyway, wishing the darkness would swallow him whole.

 

There are too many questions he's not ready to answer, too many memories he wants to forget, too many cracks in his composure.

 

He doesn't know if he can ever face Agent Triplett again.

 

–

 

It's Bobbi who finds him, of course, she's the only one who know his hiding place. She shakes him awake and he almost punches her in the face.

 

Lucky for him, her reflexes are always on point.

 

She doesn't ask what happened, she doesn't say anything at all, just sits down next to him and waits.

 

They stay silent for a long time.

 

“He said he could teach me.” His voice sounds harsh in the hushed room, and for a moment he fears the walls will crumble around them. He breathes in deeply, the fire in his chest swelling and waning over and over again.

 

“I didn't really know him,” she divulges when he doesn't say anything more. “I know his betrayal wasn't easy on Trip, or Coulson for that matter. They don't talk about it much, but...you can tell they're still angry.”

 

He nods his head in agreement, because he had seen the resentment in Director Coulson's eyes when he mentioned the name for the first time. When May had told them they'd been friends, he'd felt a bitterness of his own because how could they not have noticed? But it had faded quickly. He knew how manipulative Garrett could be.

 

“Did you trust him?” It's such an odd questions to ask, but he's come to expect that of her.

 

“For a while,” he confesses. For a while he'd thought he was safe there. He'd been stupid and weak. He should have run when Garrett left, but instead he stayed, he stayed and trained and waited for his return like a disciplined dog. _It's a small price to pay,_ he'd told himself, even while he envisioned the skin peeling off his flesh.

 

He thinks the bruises might go deeper than it's possible to heal.

 

He tenses when she wraps an arm around his shoulders, but allows her to pull him closer and, after a moment of hesitation, rests his head on her shoulder. When fingers begin to stroke his hair, he lets out a shaky breath and wonders if his mother would have done this if she'd been alive—but she isn't. She'd dead. He killed her.

 

She would have hated him.

 

“What are you thinking,” Bobbi murmurs, resting her cheek against the crest of his head. He's not a child, they shouldn't be doing this. He shouldn't be here at all.

 

“I killed him,” he doesn't really mean to say it, or maybe he does, it's just that the words are too heavy to keep inside.

 

“Garrett?”

 

He nods his head as much as he can in this position.

 

“I'm not safe,” he realizes. His bones creak like burning wood, his vertebrae quivering all the way to the top of his spine—he blinks back tears. “I'm a monster.”

 

The arms around him tighten, so much, that he shifts his limbs to remind himself they're not restrained.

 

“You're not,” she bites out, her words followed by a sharp inhalation. “He was.”

 

He laughs, tears blurring his vision. “But he's not the only one I killed.”

 

–

 

“I told her,” he tells May later. She doesn't ask for an explanation.

 

“Good,” she declares and he thinks that might be pride in her voice. She doesn't urge him to open up more, doesn't tell him what to do; but he knows he should consider talking to Agent Triplett.

 

After he's apologized to the Director for burning that table to a crisp.

 

–

 

“Black, no sugar,” Bobbi jokes as she places the mug in front of him.

 

He inhales the vapour rising from the surface and sighs. The tea smells good, though not as great as May's blend. He wraps his hands around the cup, heat stinging the palms of his hands, and wonders if the fire inside him ever misses being free.

 

But what if freedom means destruction? Wouldn't that mean-

 

“Stop that,” Bobbi chides. He looks for a glimpse of disguised emotion, disgust maybe, or fear, but her gaze is fond as always, the edges tinged with sympathy. It takes him aback, how little it fazed her.

 

“Do you want to watch a movie?” she says.

 

He chews his lip and stares down into the dark pool of tea. Not even an ocean could provide him answers.

 

“Star Wars?” he asks tentatively, because if she's looking for normality, he won't stop her.

 

It earns him a laugh. “Nerd.”

 

–

 

He intents to tell Agent Triplett so much, but when he finally gathers his courage, all that passes his lips is, “what was he like?”

 

For a moment, he misplaces the betrayed look in the other man's eyes as hatred and thinks maybe he _understands._

 

He doesn't.

 

Agent Triplett’s wounds are clean cuts, deep but healing over time; his are still festering. He can't quite tell if he's disappointed or relieved. He can't help but wonder, _why me,_ and feels guilty for the thought.

 

So when Agent Triplett apologizes for never insisting to know where Garrett disappeared to, Grant just smiles, making sure the fire stays behind his teeth.

 

“What did he do to you?” the specialist asks frowning.

 

Perhaps the smoke in his eyes is not as invisible as he likes to think.

 

–

 

“It's a word,” Jemma insists. Skye looks sceptical and Fitz can't stop laughing.

 

He freezes in the doorway, certain he's intruding, until a sturdy hand between his shoulder blades forces him through the threshold. “Stop thinking,” Bobbi rebukes gently.

 

_Easier said than done._

 

“Grant,” Skye calls out as if she's in need of rescue. He glances back at Bobbi, who merely smirks, before joining them on the sofa.

 

“Finally someone who speaks my language,” Skye declares dramatically, eliciting a grumble of protests from the others.

 

_They're playing scrabble._ He remembers this game.

 

“Tell them that's not a word,” she urges. He can tell she's jesting, but he doesn't know how to react.

 

So he doesn't.

 

The expectant silence is uncomfortable; he frowns at the letters on the board.

 

“Okay fine, you win Simmons,” Skye declares awkwardly, shifting in her seat. When he looks up her eyes are dark with concern.

 

He hates it.

 

“Do you want to join?” Jemma asks. “We can start over.”

 

“No,” he hurries because he doesn't want to inconvenience them. “It's fine. Continue.”

 

He stands up despite Fitz' half-hearted protest and moves across the room to where Bobbi's reading-

 

“The Hunger Games?”

 

The corners of her lips twitch upwards. “You gotta cover all bases, honey.”

 

“What's it about?” he asks, slightly taken aback by the endearment.

 

Something odd passes across her face, her brow furrowing, and all she says is, “right.”

 

He thinks he might have said something wrong, but she flashes another smile, and he shrugs it off.

 

She lends him her copy later.

 

It's strange. He hasn't read a book in years. _Girl on fire,_ he snorts.

 

–

 

“How are you?” Director Coulson asks, shuffling the papers on his desk.

 

“Fine,” he answers, trying not to feel like a bother. The older man smiles his way, but his eyes are always shadowed. He's not sure whether it's sorrow or suspicion.

 

 _Are you upset I killed him_ , he wonders, _or that you never noticed?_

 

 _Do I remind you of him?_ He doesn't like to think about that one too often.

 

There's a long pause that is anything but comfortable. This used to be the part where they discussed his progress and talked about removing the device.

 

He stopped asking a while ago.

 

–

 

“I hate him,” he blurts because when it comes to this he never seems to find the right words. Truth is he doesn't hate Garrett as much as he hates himself; he thinks perhaps that's the problem.

 

Agent Triplett doesn't judge, doesn't call him a murderer. Grant isn't sure why he thought he would.

 

At first he answers the man's questions because he feels like he owes him, but slowly, hesitantly, he begins to divulge things on his own.

 

He finds it easier to talk to someone who can relate, who actually knew Garrett well, or as well as he ever allowed anyone to know him. It almost feels like they're slotting events into place, piecing their versions of a man together, configuring something that is more than the lie they were presented.

 

There are parts missing however. Trip hardly talks about his partner, and Grant doesn't push.

 

He has secrets of his own to keep.

 

–

 

Sometimes, he considers this is all a dream, a delusion; that he finally cracked and he's still at the Hydra facility surrounded by faceless demons muttering words he doesn't quite understand, people taking what they wanted without consent.

 

Sometimes, the walls surrounding him appear eerily similar to the ones that haunt his dreams. It is the people within them who make all the difference. He watches them and wonders if this is what family should look like. He misses his sister, but thinks she might have approved.

 

Sometimes, he is grateful for the device that suppresses the fire inside him, because it decreases the chances of him killing someone he loves.

 

Again.

 

–

 

He can't concentrate, his gaze lost somewhere in the distance between his breakfast and the doorway someone just walked through. _Look up,_ his mind screams, but his head is too muddled and his throat aches.

 

“You look terrible,” Agent Hunter remarks, coming to a halt beside him. Amusement colours his voice and it's not appreciated.

 

“Thanks,” he croaks, morosely staring down at his cereal. He shifts in his chair, instantly regretting the action as the uneven legs wobble slightly and nausea sets in.

 

“You really do look terrible,” the man repeats and this time he sounds almost concerned. The hand that touches his forehead startles him so much he almost knocks over his glass.

 

“Sorry,” Agent Hunter says, frowning. “Are you feeling alright?”

 

“I'm fine,” he insists, but as he jerks his head, another wave of dizziness hit him. His stomach flips, bile burning in his throat—he swallows and grabs the edge of the table.

 

_It's fine. It's fine. It's fine._

 

There is a hand on his arm and he fears his skin might crumble beneath the pressure. He feels sick. Yanking his arm out of the other man's grip, he hastens to suppress the vicious lurch of the fire inside him until it feels like his lungs are wood and he's breathing smoke.

 

“I'm not gonna hurt you kid,” he hears Agent Hunter say but words have never meant much to him.

 

Someone else promised to help him once.

 

–

 

“You're sick,” Jemma frowns.

 

“I'm no-” he trails off at the unimpressed expression on May's face. “It's not bad.”

 

“You have a fever,” Fitz informs him casually, as if it's new information.

 

“He does look a bit peaky,” Skye chimes in. _For god's sake._

 

“Nothing some rest won't fix,” Agent Koenig adds. _Which one is this and where did he come from?_

 

Agent Hunter nudges his shoulder and it kinda hurts. His muscles feel sore which isn't fair now that he actually managed to _not_ trigger the device. “Look at all these mother hens,” the man says, a smirk on his lips. Nobody contradicts him, but noticing the look on May's face, Grant pities what might come.

 

There are so many people here and they all look concerned, crowding around like he's going to faint at any moment. He's fine honestly, some of the drugs they used to give him made him feel a lot worse.

 

He tilts his head—because he never learns—and suddenly the room is spinning.

 

There are _so many people here_.

 

“Give him some space,” Agent Mackenzie calls out and he's overwhelmed by a mixture of relief and gratitude as they listen and take a step back.

 

Bobbi suddenly appears at his side, which is odd because he thought she was on a mission, and _where did Hunter go?_

 

“For fuck's sake Bob, was that necessary?”

 

Grant would laugh, but it hurts. _Okay_ , he thinks, _maybe I'm not fine at all._

 

“Everybody out!” Jemma yells, and he's never heard her voice quite as harsh—her lab coat is a glaring white that burns onto his retina. He grabs at the fabric Bobbi's sleeve as she moves because his head is clouded and it's not _safe_.

 

“Don't worry,” she mutters, “I'm not going anywhere.”

 

–

 

He's tired and drained and wants nothing more than snuggle into warm sheets and sleep for a week.

 

Or forever.

 

He caught some strain of the flu, apparently. “Nothing bad,” Jemma assures him. “We just don't really know how your antibodies react. I mean, if they react the same or not because-”

 

“I'm not human?” He doesn't mean to say that.

 

The words seem to shock her. “Of course you are.” She sounds properly outraged.

 

It makes him feel all fuzzy...or maybe that's just because his head feels stuffed.

 

–

 

He wakes to a dull thumping sound and groans as it's followed by an awareness of the a completely different pounding in his skull.

 

When the door slides open, he freezes.

 

“I brought you something to eat,” Skye whispers and he relaxes instantly. He doesn't really want to move but sits up anyway.

 

“You didn't have to.”

 

Her lips curve and she shakes her head as if he's said something amusing, before placing the tray down on the bedside table.

“I thought maybe when you're finished, we could play a game.”

 

Truth be told, he'd rather just go back to sleep, but the offer makes his heart ache and he doesn't want to cry so he says, “okay.” He takes a sip from the tea she brought him and promptly grimaces.

 

Skye laughs at his expression. “Oh right, Simmons added lemon for your throat.”

 

“How many?” he retorts.

 

–

 

“What does that do?” he asks Mack, pointing a the strange tube machine thing, because he never did get around to asking Fitz. His voice sounds odd and gravely but it hardly hurts anymore.

 

“It blows stuff up,” Hunter butts in before Mack has a chance to open his mouth. Bobbi rolls her eyes behind his back, and Grant barely stops the grin from conquering his lips.

 

“It's a bit more complicated than that,” Mack sighs. Grant thinks he understands now why the man takes such a liking to Fitz.

 

Or maybe that's another story all together.

 

–

 

He brings Skye a cup of coffee when she's typing away on her laptop, the furrow of her brown deepening every second. It didn't take him long to learn there isn't anyone who can do what she does.

 

“Oh thank god,” she breathes as he sets the mug down on the table. “You're a life saver.”

 

Trip merely grins when Grant offers him the chocolate bar.

 

He doesn't think they gets the significance, but that's okay.

 

 _He_ does.

 

–

 

“I'm proud of you,” May tells him. He almost chokes on his tea. The sudden quirk of her lips can't be anything but a smirk.

 

He sets the mug down and cocks his head.

 

“You've been applying what I've taught you,” she explains.

 

“You mean I haven't set anyone on fire?”

 

She raises an eyebrow at his response and he ducks his head because all this is making him very uncomfortable. He doesn't believe he deserves the praise, after all, it's the device on his neck that truly keeps his powers in check.

 

“If you want to,” she says, the tone of her voice so serious, he's instantly alert, “FitzSimmons think they can safely remove it.”

 

He isn't sure how to respond. He _can't,_ because his throat has constricted to the point that no words manage to pass through.

 

The fire inside him doesn't clamour to get out, it fills his chest and spreads heat through his bones.

 

A part of him wants to say _no_ , it's safer that way.

 

But in the core of his being, he yearns to be free, and he knows he could never surrender that control to anyone or anything else.

 

_Never again._


End file.
